


Is It Over?

by catherinewestwood



Category: Scandal (TV), The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:20:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8107477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherinewestwood/pseuds/catherinewestwood
Summary: Olivia Pope comes to the rescue.





	1. Chapter 1

It was rare that Olivia flew outside of D.C. Sure, there was sleaze everywhere, but she fixed it in the dirtiest city in the world.

There was something there, just like the Bordeaux she was sipping on Delta’s First Class cabin wasn’t disappointing.

She loved flying First Class; she liked it even more when a client was paying for it.

_______________________

_Harrison dictated the policy very directly. “There will be a driver waiting at JFK at her terminal, and he won’t be holding a sign. He will know her by her face. I will send you a picture in case you don’t already have one. Do you have a driver smart enough to recognize a face?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Then have him waiting for her. Without a placard.”_

_________________________

She looked at the sea of faces, of balloons and flowers and ordinary people in sweatshirts and smiles, and then saw the nod from the guy in a sharp but ordinary-looking suit. Of course.

Olivia didn’t nod, but only dipped her head and made her way down the winding walkway until he caught up with her.

“Ms. Pope.”

She dipped her head, and nearly smiled. “Yes.”

“She’s waiting for you,” he said, and his voice was soothing for a man who easily stood at six feet and looked like a running back for the Washington Redskins. Or whatever the New York version of that was.

Because she was in New York. Manhattan. The only city that rivaled D.C.’s importance but yet never paid any attention to it. New York never thought of D.C. as anything but a cesspool of depravity and the definition of a necessary evil. New York never respected Washington.

Olivia Pope hated Manhattan, and as her heels clicked its way on the city’s sidewalk, she nearly ran back into the airport.

 

Except, she had a client.

The driver stayed to her left, and was nondescript as he lugged her carry-on, and Olivia at least saw a loyal man.

He held the door open for her, and of course it would be a Mercedes.

She slid into the seat, and realized immediately she wasn’t alone.

She turned her head, and saw Miranda Priestly.

“Well, you travel well.”

Olivia was surprised, and she hated to be surprised. “I thought we would be meeting in your house.”

Miranda looked frankly at her. “Paparazzi are everywhere, Ms. Pope. Maybe not tonight, but maybe tonight, one of them is hanging around my house, hoping for someone or the other to come by. I don’t know, but I also know I do not want to take that chance. My office, well, there would be security guards, and then who knows what incompetent person would stumble towards my office seeking a respite from whatever hell I’ve subjected him or her to for the day. What I mean to say, Ms. Pope, is that the safest place for us to meet is in this car.”

Olivia raised an eyebrow in helpless respect. Of course, she had heard of Miranda Priestly. Who hadn’t? But she was also the first person in a long time Olivia had heard speak in complete paragraphs. Who thought through all of the angles dispassionately, and had arrived at the right conclusion. “Then, let’s meet. You already know I’m the best, but there are good fixers in New York. Local boys and girls who know the market much better than I do. People who have sway, and have the New York Times Editorial Board on their double-date schedules. But you called me because there’s a D.C. angle; it’s the only reason anyone in this city ever reaches out to Washington. So, what is at stake here?”

Miranda nearly smirked. “You know, you have a chip on your shoulder.”

Olivia’s eyes glittered. “I have many chips, Ms. Priestly. If you walked in my shoes, you would too.”

The muscles around Miranda’s eyes tightened. “I am on the short list for being the Ambassador to France.”

Olivia was the one who nearly smiled now. “And?”

Miranda Priestly looked away, and Olivia had won the round. At the end of this transaction, it was Miranda who still needed the help.

“I have a lover.”

Olivia’s eyes quickly swooped upwards as she went through the choices. “He’s underage, he’s married, he’s influential, he’s a felon–”

Miranda nearly growled at the back of her throat. “It’s not a ‘he.'”

Olivia leaned back in her seat, and found herself not at all surprised. “Okay. Walk me through it.”

_____________________________

“I love her.”

Olivia nodded because this fact had both everything and nothing to do with the situation at hand. “Of course.”

Miranda looked up, her lips a firm line. “But.”

“But neither the House nor the Senate wants anything to do with the President’s agenda. And the last thing anyone needs is an Ambassadorship approval blowing up because of a gay love affair.”

“I’m divorced.”

“Yes, officially single, but still rattled enough to know that while the Millennials support gay marriage, it’s still the Boomers who control the government. And there are enough old people who don’t want an official representative of the US government, especially in a fruity place like Europe, being queer. It’s bad enough that we need to have people talking to Europe, actually living in Europe. Right?”

Miranda’s jaw clenched. “You hate this as much as I do.”

Olivia nearly rolled her eyes. “The best argument against democracy–”

“Yes, I know the quote. Churchill was a racist drunk.”

Olivia sighed. “You want this fixed.”

Miranda looked her dead in the eye. “I love her. But, yes, I want this fixed.”

_____________________________

December wasn’t turning out to be as cold as last year. So, of course, Andy could be silly and think about all the mushy thoughts that made this December so much warmer than last year’s. But she’d been too mushy lately.

She was just letting all the chemicals get to her brain. And, Gawd, were they powerful. The endorphins and the dopamine and the serotonin and whatever else, they made her feel like goo. Because if she could give the effect names, especially medical names, then she wasn’t just the luckiest woman on the world. She was just a byproduct of chemicals, and then she didn’t have to bite her tongue on the L word.

Gawd, she was a mess. But Andy was Miranda’s mess, and two nights ago, on the kitchen table, and her legs wrapped around Miranda’s waist–

“Oh, what a cute bag!”

Andy looked up to see a gorgeous stranger complimenting her. “Oh, thanks! It was a gift.”

The stranger in her white trench coat sat down next to her on the bus stop. “Wow, that’s so thoughtful.”

No one on public transport in NYC talked to anyone else. It was the code. She’d only been here a couple of years, but Andy knew at least that much. Unless this woman was mentally disturbed. Which could totally be the reason because even exceptionally well-dressed women could still be psychotic, axe-wielding murders. Right? “Ah, thanks, but I think my bus is here and–”

“Listen, Andy, I need to talk to you, and you need to listen to what I’m saying.”

Andy stood, and clutched her bag. “How do you know my name?”

Olivia looked at her prey firmly. “You are Andrea Sachs. You work for the New York Mirror, and have been involved with Miranda Priestly for exactly ten months and fourteen days.”

Olivia said nothing more, but refused to lean back against the filthy plastic of the bus stop.

Andy sat down heavily, the breath leaving her in a gush. “Who are you?”

Olivia leaned forward, but not into Andy’s personal space. “Listen to what I say very carefully. Miranda loves you. Do you hear me?”

Andy looked up at wide eyes. “Have you kidnapped her?”

Olivia nearly reared back. “God, no.” It had been a long time since she’d been thrown off her game. “What? No. Listen to me. She loves you, but she’s also up for an amazing position in the government.”

Andy’s forehead suddenly cleared. “The Ambassador.”

Olivia reassesed her victim. “So you know she’s up for it?”

Andy didn’t give her a thing. “Who the hell are you?”

Olivia took a deep breath. “I have been hired by Miranda Priestly to secure her nomination to the Ambassador of France. She loves you, but she cannot get the position while having a lesbian lover more than twenty years younger than her. Especially when that lover was also her assistant during her being Editor for the biggest magazine on the face of the planet. A fashion magazine, but nevertheless has more eyeballs on it than the New York Times. Are you following me?”

Andy hadn’t moved. She was riveted, and she was processing, and she secretly knew this day would come. She had hoped it wouldn’t, but Miranda had made a choice. “Tell her I won’t text, call, or see her.”

Olivia’s eyes nearly bugged out, but she got it under control in time. “This is not a joke. If you go out and get drunk with friends, and either want to ‘sext’ her, or bitch her out, it doesn’t happen. You call me instead. Do I have your word?”

Andy accepted the business card placidly, and looked back into Olivia’s eyes. “I’m a journalist; all I have is my word.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia comes to the rescue.

_It was really when Mellie had confronted (in that way the First Lady had) her about the flag pin that Olivia had decided to resign._

_Olivia had given Fitz Eisenhower’s pin, and his wife had returned it to her. Because he had taken Olivia to see the Constitution, and not his wife._

_Could she feel lower?_

_Olivia didn’t know, and she hadn’t wanted to find out._

_So Olivia Pope had resigned from the inner circle of President Fitzgerald Grant._

“She hasn’t called me.”

Olivia looked up to see Miranda frowning at her. “Yes, that was the point.”

Miranda didn’t sigh. “I thought she would be angry. Furious, ravenous for blood. She’d call, text, overwhelm.”

Olivia narrowed her eyes. “What are you saying?”

“I just–”

Olivia stood. “Miranda, we have a week to get your nomination through. Focus on the end game.”

Miranda nearly sneered. “You may think you have to school me, but the shoe is not completely on the other foot.”

“What?”

Miranda walked to her desk calmly. “You don’t get to be an Editor if you can’t be construct a rock-solid story. I work with pictures my entire career; making them tell a compelling story, making them enough for people to desire beyond their means; making pictures glorious enough to fuel a multi-billion-dollar industry. I know a narrative.”

“Of course you do, Miranda.”

“And I also know a devastated heart when I see one.”

“Miranda, I don’t know–”

“Andrea left me once. It was when we were working together.” Miranda looked away because she couldn’t actually look at anyone while she told this story. “We weren’t involved, nothing inappropriate happened. It was the morning after Stephen told me he was leaving me. And she worked to save my career, but I was already ahead of her. Of course I was ahead of a do-gooder assistant from Ohio. Of course. But she walked away an hour after she tried to save me. Do you know why?”

Olivia didn’t move. “No, I don’t.”

“Because I had disappointed her. I made a cold, calculating move to save this magazine, and she only saw it as everything she didn’t want. Even though she did. So it took time, and it took public events, and it took pulling in a lot of favors, but somehow, I overwhelmed her better judgment, and we are together.”

Olivia listened because sometimes clients just needed to let loose their own worst demons. She didn’t know why they did it; it never made anyone feel any better. She had really expected better from Miranda.

And then Miranda Priestly looked up. “President Grant was lucky to have you.”

Olivia stopped breathing for a minute.

Miranda smiled. “My professional life is about pictures, a narrative. I can see the pieces from a great distance.”

__________________________________

**A Few Days Later**

Olivia had her iPhone glued to her ear. “And you’re sure?

Miranda didn’t remember the last time she had felt this tired. She tossed and turned endlessly every night, until she’d given in after the first two nights, and started taking her Xanax again. Better living through chemistry; the phrase came to her from a distant memory of Caroline using that phrase for a school paper on the development of pharmaceutical companies.

She couldn’t even smile, couldn’t even force a facsimile of one.

_Miranda knew how to keep tabs on people without them ever knowing. And it was after hearing that Andrea had gotten scooped on her third consecutive story because the cub reporter wouldn’t bend (or break) certain rules. Miranda had had enough. She wasn’t going to let promise that she had nurtured so carefully be blasted away by some idiotic notion of ethics. So, after only three months since she’d last seen Andrea on that sidewalk and the girl had awkwardly waved to her, Miranda found herself in Andrea’s apartment, lecturing the girl on career suicide._

_Andrea had gotten over the shock of Miranda showing up at her doorstep, but remained mostly silent, with narrowed eyes, as Miranda laid into her._

_“You cannot keep throwing away stories because every source didn’t check out. You cannot skip having the byline if you’re worried about every potential fallout scenario of running a story. You have to stay objective, above the fray, but in the melee. I don’t really know how you can continue to be successful if you’re not willing–“_

_“To be you. Right?”_

_It was the first words Andrea had spoken in awhile, and it jarred Miranda for a moment. “That’s far too simplistic, Andrea. But you cannot continue your current modus operandi, and remain viable in this business for long.”_

_Andrea uncrossed her legs, and stood, the action causing Miranda to breathe faster. But Andrea just walked over to the rickety desk, and pulled her satchel open, pulled out a few sheets of paper, then walked to Miranda, and handed it to her._

_Miranda couldn’t really stop looking at the young woman because this was the closest they had stood since Paris, but when Andrea only stared back at her, she finally looked down and read the words leaping off of the front page._

_Andrea turned away, allowing Miranda a few moments to absorb what she was reading. “I ran the story tonight on the Teachers’ Union stand-off. I harassed every source, I even stalked a couple of them, and I bribed one of them. Fifty bucks never bought me so much information. I can see the writing on the wall as clear as you. But you know what the problem is?”_

_Miranda looked up from Andrea’s first every above-the-fold byline, and only saw misery. “What?”_

_“I am working my dream job, and I have to force myself out of bed every morning. I can’t even take too long over doing my make-up because I don’t want to get caught staring at the face in the mirror. But you already know all of this, right? That’s why you can always brush on your face in under five minutes?”_

_Miranda swallowed. “This is New York, not Cincinnati. Where, I imagine, life is even harsher, and the bribe would have been a twenty instead of fifty. Wake up, Andrea. When the Gods want us miserable, they grant us our deepest wish.”_

_Andrea only grimaced briefly. “Then this is really going to suck.” And, with that, the reporter walked up to Miranda, thrust her hands into that iconic hair, and kissed her._

_Miranda let the papers in her hand fall, and clutched at the woman in her arms. She had always known it would come down to this, and she had fervently hoped she wouldn’t have to make the first move._

_Their lips weren’t gentle because this wasn’t entirely a happy development; they were both just tired of fighting the unforgiving tug between them, and wanted to feel some respite, some glory for having stayed chaste for so long._

_Their fingers were shaking and sloppy, and it took three tries for Andrea to even unbuckle the cross-hatched Japanese belt Miranda was wearing. To say nothing of pulling off Andrea’s sweatshirt in a manner that was in any way seductive, slow, or movie-like. But finding skin was like finding air again, and they inhaled each other. Who knew if the sex would be awkward, horribly unfulfilling, or everything they had ever hoped for? They were just tired of imagining all the scenarios._

_And, they had. Would Miranda kiss rapaciously down Andrea’s neck and leave marks there because she couldn’t stop herself? Yes, indeed. Would Andrea push Miranda down on the unkempt bed, and just stare at her for an entire minute in disbelief before jumping in after? Not that night, but the next night because neither of them wanted to pause for any sort of self-reflection that would call a halt to the proceedings._

_They were each afraid the other would pause, would find something lacking, and before they could even find out if this night was the first or last step, one of them would push the other away for good. So, they hurried; Miranda heard the small rip in Andrea’s underwear, and only pushed it further down her thighs. Andrea tossed Miranda’s clothes all around them without care. Her fingers would leave unintended bruises because she was pushing Miranda’s legs apart with that much speed. Miranda’s mouth watered as she felt her fingers squeezed in a wet vise, and she could only kiss Andrea, and try to memorize the hurried notes of their combined breathing._

_Neither of them came that night, but they knew there was enough potential, enough heat, enough anger and misery and everything else, that they wouldn’t stop until each had figured out how to make the other black out from pleasure._

_They couldn’t stop now._

Olivia was half-listening to Harrison and Abby, who were handling the situation with their D.C. sources; she couldn’t be at two places at once, and she trusted her team. They were making steady process, and this situation should be over in a couple of days.

As she looked over at Miranda, who did a decent job of turning the pages of a book as if she were actually absorbing anything in it, Olivia needed she had things she had to work on here as well.

“Okay, last question, what’s his name and address?”

As the information was relayed to her, she responded. “Get a car and driver over to that address, and bring him to Miranda’s house. Yes, now. I don’t care if it’s the middle of the day, yank him out. Okay? Okay.”

Olivia hung up, and swept into motion. “We’re about twenty-four hours from having the nomination signed, sealed, and delivered. After that, only a felony or some IRS tax swindling could derail the process. But there’s also something we need to do on our end. Here.”

Miranda looked up. “What is it?”

Olivia picked up her own iPad, and started typing into the Google bar. “Be ready to leave in half-an-hour.”

Miranda took orders from no one, but she had put herself in this exact situation. So exactly twenty-nine minutes later, Miranda was changed, and just as she was descending the stairs she noticed that there was some sort of commotion in the foyer.

Olivia was talking to a young man in a suit who looked very familiar and quite a bit harried to say the least.

Olivia heard her, and turned around and smiled. “Miranda, good you’re on time. This is Doug, Andy’s best friend.”

Miranda’s breathing hastened but her lips only twitched. “I know, I’ve met him once.”

Doug narrowed his eyes, and could barely control the snarl. “Hello, Miranda.”

Miranda sighed; of course the boy would take Andrea’s side but was she really such a monster?

Olivia looked directly at her, and tugged Doug by the sleeve. “You and Doug are taking a quick roadtrip.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, to Cartier. Here, I’ve printed out a few options, and gotten assurances from the staff that they’ll clear the store for you for the period of one hour. So if you leave now, you’ll get there in time.”

Doug’s jaw dropped, and Miranda felt momentarily faint. “Pray tell, Ms. Pope, why am I going to Cartier? And why am I going with him?”

Olivia pursed her lips. “Because while professionally speaking, you should have the appointment in the bag tomorrow, if you want to remain personally happy, then you’re going to have to get her back with something big. Really big. Like an engagement ring.”

Now Miranda was sure she was going to faint. “What?”

“She needs a promise from you. She needs some sort of sign that this will never happen again, that you will never leave her side for political gain. This is the way to do it.”

Miranda blinked, and wasn’t sure the woman opposite her was in her right mind. Maybe all the stress had done in the indomitable Olivia Pope.

Miranda felt her fingers clutching at air. “I think I deserve a few minutes to at least think about this.”

Olivia smiled. “Perfect, think about it in the car. If you disagree with my recommendation, then just turn the car around.”

Doug finally found his voice. “Uh, and why am I going with her?”

Olivia turned to him with steel in her eyes. “Because you’re Andy’s best friend, have decent fashion sense, and most importantly, you will know what she likes.”

Doug and Miranda looked at each other, and for a moment there were no words.

Then Olivia opened the front door of the house to signal to the waiting car, and Miranda stepped out into the light of the midday Manhattan sun.


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Importantly, please note the first flashback (in italics) in this Epilogue — the conversation between Olivia and Fitz in the Rose Garden — is directly from the show. The credit for that section of dialog goes entirely, obviously, to the show’s writers!

It was a fair question as to why Olivia was fixing more than Miranda’s professional life. But for people like her and Miranda, it was their job to be great, not happy.

But if there were the slightest chance — the chance that was clearly denied for her and Fitz — that she could manufacture a reunion between two people who clearly loved each other, she was going to do it.

She thought of it as a professional courtesy, of being able to do for others that which she was unable to do for herself.

That night in the Rose Garden, when she’d still been working for the President of the United States, and was still sleeping with him. She could recall it so well. And more pieces of her heart fell away.

_Fitz had been incredulous. “You’re playing the race card because I’m in love with you? Come on! Don’t belittle us. It’s insulting and beneath you and designed to drive me away. I’m not going away.”_

_But she had suddenly had enough. “I don’t have to drive you away. You married and you have children. You’re the leader of the Free World. You are away by definition. You are away. You’re unavailable.”_

_“So this is about Mellie?”_

_The mention of his wife’s name just made everything worse, more impossible. And she finally screamed at her lover. “No, no, no! This is–I smile at her and take off my clothes for you. I wait for you. I watch for you. My whole life is you. I can’t breathe because I’m waiting for you. You own me, you control me, I belong to you–”_

_And then Fitz Grant, the sitting President, exploded right back at her. “You own me! You control me. I belong to you. You think I don’t want to be a better man? You think that I don’t want to dedicate myself to my marriage? You don’t think I want to be honorable? To be the man you voted for? I love you. I’m in love with you. You’re the love of my life. My every feeling is controlled by the look on your face. I can’t breathe without you. I can’t sleep without you. I wait for you, I watch for you. I exist for you. If I could escape all of this and run away with you?”_

But she and Fitz couldn’t. They were trapped in a prison of their own making. Until she had fled the gilded cage of the White House, and made everything worse. She had abandoned Fitz, Cyrus, and hell, she had even hurt Mellie. But, at some point, self-preservation had kicked in.

Miranda had an escape route that would actually give her everything she wanted and needed. And Olivia had realized how to go about making that happen because that was her job; finding alleyways inside the cities of people’s decisions; finding backdoors to rooms with only walls; finding weaknesses in Adamantium; finding imperfect solutions to perfect problems.

And if she couldn’t do it for herself, she could damn well do it for her clients.

________________________

“God, I hate work Holiday parties. Who ever thought they were a good idea?”

Doug was so nervous his palms were sweating, so he just lightly patted the Andy’s knee. “Thanks for coming. I didn’t want to go alone.”

“Why not take Patrick?”

“Please, being gay is fine for bankers, but showing up with an actual man? That’s enough to kill my career.”

“You should have really gone into fashion. You’d be surrounded. Although, you’d be too stressed to do anything but ogle.”

“Ha, yea.”

Andy frowned. “Are you okay?”

“Yea, yea, yea. Oh, look! Here we are!”

Andy looked up at the nondescript building in the Warehouse District. The cobbled sidewalks, and the old brick of the building was a charming if completely surprising location for the holiday party of one of the world’s biggest investment banks. “Huh, nice choice.”

Doug’s hands were shaking as he paid the cabbie, and got out of the taxi. Now the hard part.

“So, here’s the thing.”

And there was something in his voice that made her eyes narrow. “Doug–”

“Listen, she loves you. She just wants ten minutes.”

Andy felt her brain catch on fire, and her breath go short. She wasn’t ready for this shit. She should have known that Miranda would try something like this. The problem really was that Andy wasn’t even sure what she should do. Could you she really be with someone who used go-betweens to arrange their relationship? Could she be with someone who would always outshine her? Could she be with someone about whom they’d forever be gossip and vitriol and attention?

As the thoughts whipped through her mind, she reached to rub at her forehead gently (and not undo all the make-up). But perhaps the problem was that the answers to those questions didn’t matter.

Fuck this love shit.

___________________________

As Andy stood alone in the elevator, on her way up to see Miranda in this weird building, she had no idea what would await her. If she saw Miranda, would Andy slap her? Just once, to inflict the pain that Andy had endured in silence for the past few days? Would she fall into her arms, and accept all of the words that Miranda said? Would she be stoic, and not react even if Miranda fell to her knees and begged forgiveness?

Andy snorted as the elevator moved up slowly. Miranda, on her knees? Right.

But she remembered the first time Miranda _had_ been on her knees for her. And Andy clutched the side-rail of the elevator as the memory, visceral like she could feel the whisper of Miranda’s breath on her thighs even now, knocked her knees together.

_It had only been their third night, and this time, it was if someone completely different had overcome Miranda. They had taken two sips of a very nice white wine, but Andy suspected Miranda was already quite buzzed when she showed up on her doorstep. Well, it wasn’t like Andy hadn’t taken a shot of tequila a few minutes before Miranda’s arrival. Liquid courage took all kinds._

_And then Miranda had set down her wineglass with a decided snap, and crossed the distance separating her from Andy. She hadn’t even said anything, her face betraying nothing either. She had steadily and quickly pushed Andy against the wall of her bedroom, and looked right into her eyes the entire time as she undid the silk pants Andy had worn for just this occasion._

_Andy’s breathing had gotten fast, and she had wanted to kiss Miranda so badly, but the older woman had just tilted her head, and kissed Andy’s neck softly, meandering down to her collarbone. Her hands, as always, found their way into Miranda’s hair because that was the biggest fucking turn-on for Andy. But Miranda pulled away, and quietly pressed Andy’s palms against the wall, still saying nothing. And then she leaned back in, and kissed Andy’s shoulders very gently, as her hands started to skim the skin of Andy’s arms._

_The young woman couldn’t stop shivering; she’d never been so overwhelmed with so little before._

_Andy wanted to protest, wanted to speak, wanted to play an active part in this dance, but she couldn’t find the words when Miranda’s fingers gently trailed up the sides of her body, lightly fingering the cashmere sweater Andy wore. The ghosting sensation made Andy close her eyes, and then in the next moment she felt the air change; she opened her eyes to see Miranda on her knees, lowering those pants, and watched Miranda take stock of Andy’s lace underwear._

_Miranda swallowed, looked up at Andy the whole time as she lowered her panties. And then, for a second, Miranda winked, and Andy giggled. They smiled at each other because this entire thing was insane, and it was probably going to end horribly, and there would be seething glances across ballrooms or public events for the rest of their lives, but this was also good for now. It was so good right now._

_And then Miranda leaned in, Andy’s hips thrust in automatic reaction. But Miranda, who might have been a novice at this but maybe she wasn’t, went very slowly, holding Andy’s hips back against the wall with her hands. And she just…explored…as if they had all night._

_And maybe they did._

_This time when Andy’s hands left the wall, and found their way into Miranda’s hair, both of them moaned._

The elevator dinged, and Andy wasn’t at all ready. She wanted to hit the red “Emergency Call” button that beckoned her. Anything for just a few more minutes, to have a plan, to know what she wanted to say or do.

But, then again, she wasn’t sure she’d ever been on sure footing with Miranda. Wasn’t that part of the thrill?

The doors finally opened and she was overwhelmed with the first notes of one of her favorite songs, Moodorama’s “Sweet Toffee.” She’d been on an insane bosso nova kick, and had even started taking dance lessons with Doug because, obviously, she couldn’t have taken them with Miranda.

The room, which was really one giant room, very much like a huge, airy loft with very tall ceilings, old brick walls, and old pipes reminiscent of the Warehouse-style buildings. On either side of the floor, there were hundreds of fat candles burning, the only source of light from the inside. And all the way at the other end of the room, backlit against an exceptionally long glass view of a gorgeous Manhattan skyline, stood Miranda leaning against the view, her arms outstretched on the brick window pane, watching Andrea.

Andy lost her breath, and even though Miranda’s face was shrouded in darkness due to the external light shining in, the candles were bright enough to show that she was wearing a black dress shot through with silver strips of silk. Valentino, if Andy recalled correctly.

As the music pulsed through the room, Andy stepped into it, and let the elevators close behind her. She had no clue as to what to do.

And then Miranda walked half the distance that separated them, to the center of the room, and stretched out her hand.

Andy’s breath caught, and this was it. This was her choice, this was her moment. Would she even deign to listen after the ginormously stupid stunt Miranda had pulled? Would she even want to be in Miranda’s presence when her own heart had been a pulsing pound of agonized flesh, feeling as if it had been crushed in an ever-tightening vise as hours had stretched on for the past week?

The anger, the fury, the confusion, and the incredulity, all of it flowed through her, and Andy could have embraced her self-righteous high-ground. She could have welcomed the flames of deserved rage, and lashed out at Miranda in every which way Andy knew. And, in the years they had known each other, Andy knew the keenest ways to cut sharpest.

But the music was so uplifting, and she couldn’t believe that the very song she had insisted on playing repeat one night when she was cooking (she had even shown Miranda a couple of the bosso nova foot movements while the vegetables sauteed) the very song Miranda had grown tired of after the third repeat, was playing loudly now.

Andy took a deep breath, and stepped forward, and was it just her imagination that Miranda sagged ever so slightly in relief?

__________________________

Miranda felt that huge headrush, like when she got up too quickly or saw an entirely perfect editorial for the first time, but this time it was due to unadulterated relief.

If Andrea were walking towards her, then they were on their way back to where they were. But the far bigger question was whether Andrea would want to go where they needed to, which was no longer where they had been.

But Miranda had imagined the scene, the words, the movements already in her head. Like the very credo of her relationship with Andrea, Miranda’s imagination was often a pale comparison to what happened in reality.

She said nothing as her lover drew closer, but kept her hand gently outstretched, her palm facing upwards, and she felt the thrill when Andrea placed her palm, hesitatingly, shakingly, in her own.

Miranda’s jaw inadvertently clenched as the saliva flooded her mouth in relief; her tongue had gone dry ever since she’d seen Andrea standing in the elevator.

Andrea looked gorgeous, so much so that Miranda had no words. So she only gently tugged Andrea into her arms, and started to show Andrea that they were well-matched, at least on the dance floor.

Andrea’s lips parted, in slight shock. Whatever she had expected it had not been Miranda saying nothing and instead leading in a slow bosso nova dance to the strains on this song.

Sure, she’d imagined it, but she didn’t really think it would ever come to pass.

Maybe a few years from now, when they’d both had a far easier way around each other, when egg shells and potential minefields didn’t always surround them because of their positions, their ages, their past, their everything. But then Andrea also noticed that Miranda’s make-up was, as usual, flawless, and her heart clenched uselessly at the physical perfection and imperfection of the woman in front of her.

And now, here there were, the air in the room not at all stifling, and with every stanza of lyrics, their bodies were moving closer to each other. Whether their minds actively noticed it or not.

And when the song ended, it started up again; Miranda had put it on repeat.

The older woman smiled tremulously at Andrea, hoping she would find it amusing as well.

And when Andrea’s lips twitched upwards seemingly helplessly, Miranda really smiled.

Over the lilting singing, Miranda finally spoke, and her voice had a distinct quiver in it. “I’m horrible at this.”

Andrea swallowed heavily, more than half-afraid she would just burst out crying. Her voice was as rough and unsteady as she’d ever heard it. “You’re managing.”

Miranda sighed, and there was a decided weight to her lips. “I didn’t know how else to–I want to say I’m sorry, and I mean it in a way that I won’t take this route again. But I really couldn’t have handled this any other way.”

Andy stepped out of her lover’s arms because it was far too distracting. “So what are you saying?”

Miranda paused, because she really, really needed to give the next words the weight of the world. “It means I love you, and I am sorry for hurting you. I didn’t realize it would wound us as much as it did.”

Andy’s breath left her in a gasp. They had once said the L word, but they had both been floating in post-coital bliss then, and they were both too afraid to say it again since then.

“And it also means that as much I hate marriage because I ultimately have failed at it — twice now — if I were to ever say ‘three times a charm,’ it would be with you.”

The blood seemed to drain from Andrea’s face. Suddenly the world got a little woozy, and she felt like her feet weren’t entirely on the ground. Miranda caught her with a firm grip around her waist before she could stumble. Pulled flush against her lover after so many days without this, Andrea’s hands were helpless, as she reached up and touched Miranda’s lips. “What are you saying?”

Miranda’s voice lowered to a near whisper, as the moment, the monumentality of what she was saying sank through her. But she ached to give a levity to her words as well. “Well, I talked to Caroline and Cassidy yesterday, and after they told me how foolish I had been, in their own teenage I-think-you’re-an-idiot-but-don’t-want-to-be-grounded-forever way, they also gave us their blessing. And, I don’t even know if you want to get married. But we can talk about it. We can talk about anything. And I may not always be open on the first blush, but I promise you that if you keep trying, so will I.”

Andy sagged in her lover’s arms, totally unprepared for this, but couldn’t, didn’t want to suppress the elation either. “Miranda–”

“You don’t have to answer now. Just…Just know it’s there. It’s always there. And I’m going to try. If you will to.”

There was no way to stop the tears flowing down her face this time, and she pushed her sopping face into Miranda’s shoulder. “Don’t ever, _ever_ do this again.”

Miranda’s arms tightened around her lover. “I won’t. I’ll keep trying to do better.”

Andrea kissed Miranda’s ear, and though her tears were slowly drying, her voice was still choked with promise. “I will too.”

_________________________________

Olivia snapped her phone shut, and breathed out in relief.

“Is it over?” Doug tremulously asked after slamming down his second shot of vodka.

“It’s handled,” she said, and her lips twitched upward as she nearly smiled.

Doug rubbed his hands over his eyes. “Thank Christ. Let’s never do this again.”

“You _do_ realize I do this for a living, right?”

“Yuck, you can keep it. I haven’t been this stressed in my life. And I’m a banker.”

Olivia sipped her red wine, and signaled for the check. “This one’s on me.”

Doug felt momentarily sad that this incredible woman was leaving. They’d really bonded (well as much as anyone could bond with someone so indecipherable and driven as Olivia, Doug mused). “Thanks. By the way, any chance you can help fix my love life too?”

Olivia smiled. She knew everything about Doug thanks to Huck’s digging, Abby’s sleuthing, and Harrison’s research. “You should leave your boyfriend. He’s never going to stop cheating, and your self-esteem is better than this. Also, you can do much better in the looks department too.”

His jaw dropped. “How–”

Olivia signed the bill, and put her card back into her wallet. She put her signature trenchcoat on, and belted it firmly. “You already knew the answer, Doug. Sometimes, you just need someone to take your hand firmly and point you in the right direction. That’s what I do.”

She smiled slightly, and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek lightly, surprising both of them. With one last nod, she left the bar, and stepped out into the crisp Manhattan night.

She stuck out her hand, and flagged a cab down much faster than she’d expected. Didn’t everyone complain that one could never get a cab when you needed it in New York?

As the cabbie loaded her carry-on into the trunk, Olivia slipped into the faux leather back seat. The cab pulled away from the curb, and Olivia watched the lights, signs, and the throngs on the sidewalk go by. She had liked Manhattan much better than she’d expected; perhaps, if everything in D.C. got (even more) overwhelming, she had found her own escape route.

She leaned back in the seat, and closed her eyes, grateful for a moment to herself, to float in another world.

And then her iPhone chirped, and she opened her eyes. She was back.

– FIN

**Author's Note:**

> More stories at catherinewestwood.wordpress.com


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